


be better than the bad

by jk_rockin



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Spanking, Strapping, yet more of my patented unspoken D/s vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28665567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: He wasn’t struck much, as a child. The odd spanking, here and there; raps over the knuckles at the Charitable School. He’d never seen anyone whipped as hard as Mister Hickey was, but even seeing Hickey’s buttocks bleeding and his lips split with biting back screams, he could not suppress his covetousness. How did it feel to be struck like that? Did the pain blind one to everything else, or was a man still sensible to the humiliation of being exposed in that way before all the men and officers?
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 60
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	be better than the bad

**Author's Note:**

> At long and blessed last! This is the first thing I started, almost immediately after finishing watching the show for the first time. If I had a dollar for every time I've started one thing and then put out another nine works before finishing the first one, I'd have two dollars! [which isn't much, but it's weird that it's happened twice.jpeg]. Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=67212#cmt67212), and guided by [this thesis statement](https://jkrockin.tumblr.com/post/637169895969357824).. Hope you like it, nonnie! Thanks to the beautiful people of the Icy Northwest Terror discord for their cheerleading and sprints. Chucking this on the 'Secret Relationship' square of my bingo square, just because.
> 
> Title from Seneca the Younger quote, _Exigo a me non ut optimis par sim, sed ut malis melior_ \- “I require myself not to be equal to the best, but to be better than the bad.” As ever, if there's something in here you wish I'd tagged for that I didn't, let me know.

The flogging was… terrible. All the men had been in low spirits afterwards, but Jopson felt it with a particular keenness, for all that he tried to put it from his mind. Terrible, to see men flogged, and worse still because whenever Jopson had seen it done- not often, mind you, Captain Crozier had never been much of a flogging captain, even at his drunkest- his feelings were always the same; pity, and an awful, shameful sense of jealousy.

He wasn’t struck much, as a child. The odd spanking, here and there; raps over the knuckles at the Charitable School. He’d never seen anyone whipped as hard as Mister Hickey was, but even seeing Hickey’s buttocks bleeding and his lips split with biting back screams, he could not suppress his covetousness. How did it feel to be struck like that? Did the pain blind one to everything else, or was a man still sensible to the humiliation of being exposed in that way before all the men and officers?

It had been months. He ought to have put it from his mind. He had, for a while, during the captain’s confinement; there had been so much to do then that even he, depraved as he felt himself to be, had been sufficiently distracted for whole days to pass without thinking about it. Now Crozier was sober, and even though so much else had gone wrong, the thoughts would not let him be. He ruminated, constantly, on what it would be like to be _punished_.

What might he have done to deserve such a punishment? What could he do, that would not have him stripped of his position? His treacherous heart might crave this debasement- if not his heart, then certainly other treacherous parts of his person- but he could not bear for the captain to think him truly wicked, and it was the captain he wanted to punish him, not any other officer. It was the captain he wanted, full stop.

His luck in obtaining his position was prodigious, truly, for although officers making use of the personal services of their stewards was, if not openly acknowledged, widely understood, being able to provide comfort to a man like Captain Crozier was a rare treasure. Then again, the captain had not availed himself of Thomas’s more intimate assistance since he had emerged from his sick bed, either. He had never made very free with Thomas to begin with, certainly not with the frequency that some officers sought the services of their stewards, but before giving up the whiskey, he had at least taken his comfort with Thomas sometimes; now, he sent him politely away every night, frequently without so much as raising his head from his papers.

Perhaps that was what had Thomas in such a state. He would never press his attentions on his captain unsolicited, of course, but he… missed Crozier. Foolish, but true. His captain was a singular man, and he missed the opportunity to touch and be touched by him. It was, doubtless, his own silly feelings for Crozier that had turned his thoughts down this unfortunate byway, and now he could no more prevent himself from imagining the possibilities of his captain’s exacting discipline than he could prevent himself from breathing.

He had never seen Crozier flog a man, but he could imagine it. Had imagined it, at night, alone in his berth. He could picture, very vividly, the rise and fall of his powerful arm, his blue eyes flashing and his cheeks growing pink from effort. The mingled joy and agony of being the sole recipient of all of that energy and power of will.

"Jopson," said Captain Crozier. Thomas startled, shaking himself out of his reverie. By his tone, it wasn't the first time his captain had tried to attract his attention.

"Sorry, sir," Thomas said, and refilled Crozier's teacup.

"Thank you, but it was actually my last set of observations I was asking for," Crozier said. "Are you quite well, lad?"

"Perfectly fine, sir," said Jopson, forcing a smile, and ducked out of the captain's cabin to locate the document in question. When he returned, he found Captain Crozier leaning back in his chair, sipping his fresh cup of tea.

"Sit down, Jopson,” said Crozier, gesturing at the nearest chair.

"That's alright, sir," said Jopson, as brightly as he could. He put the observation report down on the desk. “If there’s nothing further, I thought I might see to-”

“Sit,” said the captain, in a voice which brooked no argument.

Thomas sat. He folded his hands on his lap, and tried very hard to keep looking at the captain, rather than the floor, or out the window, or at any other point besides Crozier’s face. “Sir?”

“You’re not typically given to woolgathering,” said Crozier. He did at least seem concerned, not upset, but Thomas squirmed internally under his scrutiny. “Something has been bothering you, and I’d help you, if I can.”

“That’s… very kind, Captain, but I’m quite well,” said Thomas. It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears.

“I’d rather not make it an order,” said Crozier.

For a long moment, Thomas was quiet. Crozier was a good man, and he would not be unduly cruel, even when confronted with the extent of Thomas’s weakness. Even if the truth soured their mutual trust for ever, he owed him his honesty. “The flogging, sir,” he said. “I still think of it.”

Something very complicated happened on the captain’s face. A decade in his service had taught Thomas the nuances of his expressions, but this admixture was too complicated to make immediate sense; there were crows-feet wrinkles of sadness, a quirked brow of curiosity, and the shape of his mouth spoke to disappointment or of dashed hopes, the latter a tell with which Thomas was, unfortunately, too familiar. “A sad business,” Crozier said.

“A necessary one,” said Thomas hurriedly. “Men can’t act like that, sir, without repercussions. It’s not… I don’t blame anyone but Hickey, and Manson and Hartnell for it. But I still think about it. At… inopportune times.”

Crozier paused with his teacup halfway to his mouth. “You’re thinking about floggings while you’re serving my supper?”

“I think about it all the time,” said Thomas, prompted by the shift of Crozier’s countenance towards regret to further and more exposing honesty. “I’ve never been beaten, sir, not even when I was a boy. Not really. The thought… occupies me. I’m sorry it’s affected my duties, sir.”

Another funny combination of expressions crossed Crozier’s face, with a sight more curiosity in the mixture. “You’ve hardly been derelict in your duty, just distracted.” He paused again, watching Thomas with that cool, appraising stare. “What is it you think about?”

It was very, very difficult to stay still. “Being punished, sir,” said Thomas, through lips that felt almost numb.

“How?” Crozier asked. He took another sip of his tea.

Swallowing hard, Thomas fixed his eyes on the wall beside the captain’s ear. “Over this desk,” he said. “I’ve thought about it happening like a real flogging, with all the men watching, too, or in the wardroom in front of the officers, but usually it’s here. I’m being punished for something, but I can never think of what for. It’s always just that I’ve done wrong, and need correcting.” He should stop, before he embarrassed himself any further, but now that he had begun, he found he could not prevent himself from telling all. “It’s never with a proper cat- I like my skin too much. It’s something gentler, like they use for ship’s boys. A rope’s end, or a braided colt, or a leather strap. Sometimes you just use your bare hand.”

The captain put his cup down. A flush had begun to creep up from beneath his collar, and had nearly reached his ears. “Do I, now,” he said.

“I’m not entertaining fancies about Mister Johnson, sir,” said Thomas, puzzled.

“I see.” Captain Crozier leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “It’s fancies, is it, that you’re entertaining.“

“I’m sorry, sir,” Thomas said. More sorry than he could say, since speaking the words out loud, with the captain's attention fixed on him, had caused his prick to stir in a very inconvenient fashion. “I know it’s not proper.”

The captain snorted out an odd little laugh. The look with which he regarded Thomas was, likewise, odd; no shock or distaste, which was a mercy, but a certain amusement, and much thoughtfulness. It was the sort of look that would once have foretold a long evening alone with the decanter, but the sober Crozier's habits being so much changed, Thomas no longer knew what a look like that might mean.

"Well," said Crozier. "You've not offended me, if that was your concern, Tom."

Hearing his Christian name in the captain's mouth was a rare pleasure, and one Tom relished. “Thank you, sir," he said, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up.

For another long, considering moment, Captain Crozier was quiet. He finished his tea, and drew the set of observations he’d sent Thomas out for across the desk, that he might more easily consult them. “If there’s nothing else you wish to tell me, Jopson, you may go,” he said.

Thomas blinked. There was more he could say. He could tell Crozier how much he missed serving him in ways beyond dressing him and serving at table; he could remind him of the uses to which a steward might be put, in the cold, lonely Arctic nights. Could beg to know why he didn't want Tom anymore, now he'd put aside the whiskey.

What little dignity he had left kept those things unsaid. If the captain wanted anything from him, he would have asked. What was to be gained by forcing the man to reject him outright? "Nothing else, sir," he said, standing carefully, endeavouring to keep his trousers bunched to conceal his stubborn erection. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Jopson," said the captain. His attention seemed fully on his charts and observations, and he didn't so much as raise his head as Thomas left the room.

Had Thomas thought that baring his soul to his captain would bring him relief, he’d have been sorely mistaken. As it was, things were worse. He still thought unseemly thoughts all the time, only now he’d look up from serving dinner or sewing on a button and find Captain Crozier looking at him, with that knowing tilt to his head that said he could all but see Thomas’s filthy imaginings playing out behind his eyes. Intolerable, to be so close to him and unable to touch him or escape his notice.

He was in no danger, he knew that. Crozier wasn’t the type to play games with a man’s fate, and even if he had been, out here there were no such games to play. There was nobody to report him to, no Admiralty, no police. As for ship’s justice, one could hardly punish a secret longing for punishment _with_ punishment. It was not reprisals he feared; it was that he might lose his head and do something foolish, like drop the crockery in a moment of distraction, or, worse, grab the captain by the collar and kiss him right on his smirking mouth.

He couldn’t resign his post. Along with the freedom of the absence of authority came a lack of such tidy escapes. He couldn’t even jump ship, unless he wanted to hit ice. Trapped between his troubled, aching dreams and the workaday pace of his duties, Thomas did all that he could, which was to say he kept his kisses to himself, managed to keep the crockery all of a piece, and spent his few private hours in his berth abusing himself as thoroughly as a man might with limited access to grease.

He might have continued on like that til they all froze and starved, but, as was his somewhat ironic habit, Captain Crozier did something unexpected. Dinner on the night in question passed without incident, and Thomas was tidying up when the captain, the last to leave the table, brushed past him. “When you’re done in here, Jopson, come to the great cabin, will you,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “Bring the shaving kit.”

“You had a shave this morning, sir,” said Thomas.

“The whole kit, mind,” said the captain, turning down the corridor towards his berth.

Thomas shelved the platter he’d been wiping. His hands had begun to quiver, just a little, and he moved with more care than usual as he put away the crockery and silverware. When all was squared away, he went to the captain’s berth, and took down the wooden box that held the shaving kit from its place on the shelf. Holding it in his hands, he drew in a long breath to steady himself. He was Captain Crozier’s steward. He could be alone with him without making an ass of himself.

In the great cabin, the captain had lit the brazier, lending an usually warm glow to the room. The shutters to the aft windows were drawn closed, and the table had been cleared of all papers and instruments, leaving only polished wood gleaming in the lamplight. Captain Crozier had removed and hung up his coat, and stood in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with one hand on a chair and the other behind his back. “Close the door and put the box on the table,” said the captain.

Thomas did so, attempting to seem at ease. He opened the box, and laid beside it the towel and the bowl of ice melt he’d brought along with it. When he’d done the same that morning, he’d had time to heat the water, but if the captain did in fact want another shave, he'd have to wait or have it cold. "Sir," he said.

The captain took a step towards him, and then another. Thomas didn't move, but he felt his own posture straighten, awaiting inspection. Crozier reached into the box, and he lifted out the leather razor strop.

It was an unusual specimen, for a naval man. Most officers favoured smaller, lighter models, some preferring linen strops to leather, finding them less prone to cracking in cold climates; Captain Crozier's razor strop was a sturdy tongue of stiff harness leather, with a hook on one end to brace it for use, but no handle. The captain flexed the strop, straightening it out. “Mister Jopson,” he said. “Some time ago, you and I had a conversation about fancies.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas. His eyes had fallen on the strop, and the loose, confident grip of the captain’s fingers curled around the hook end. “I remember.”

“Now, a man may say a thing, and he may mean it, or he may not.” Captain Crozier took a step back, and another, circling around the table. “He may say a great deal, but shy from action, when it comes to the jump. The things you said you wanted, Thomas- do you want them, still?”

“ _Yes_ , sir,” Thomas breathed, hardly daring to move. “God help me, yes I do.”

On a more expressive man, the crooked smile Crozier gave Tom might have been a blinding grin. “Take your jacket off, Tom.”

With trembling fingers, Thomas hurried to undo his buttons. It seemed to take him ages, but he got the thing undone, and stripped it off, hanging it over the rail of the nearest chair as neatly as his haste would allow. The captain laid the strop down to unbutton his shirt cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows in workmanlike fashion, and came up alongside Thomas with measured steps. The decent thing to do would have been to turn to face him. Tom stayed where he was, half-turned towards the table, gaze locked on the strop where it lay.

"In all your wandering thoughts, then, how did you imagine such a thing might proceed?" Captain Crozier asked. He was using his kind, paternal tone, the one he used on snotty-nosed homesick ship's boys and harried men in need of gentle handling, which ordinarily Thomas would resent, but perhaps he did need a little gentle handling now.

“I… I don’t know,” said Thomas. “It’s the feeling I think about, not how- I never thought you’d-” he said, biting his lip. Stammering, now, like a fool.

“There, now,” said the captain. He put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, the warm weight of it settling Thomas into himself. "How about this, then. I'll tell you what I think you’re after, and you tell me how near or shy of the mark I am."

Thomas exhaled, and nodded.

"You're a good lad. Attentive in your duties, upright in conduct. A credit to your post and your captain," said Crozier. He rubbed a slow circle on Thomas's shoulder, hand moving downward. "You're not the sort who needs telling he's been a naughty boy, are you- you want to be good. Punishment, but not just punishment, hm? _Correction_."

The word sounded wonderfully filthy in his mouth, and Thomas shivered to hear it. "Yes, sir," he said. "Correction."

The captain stroked along the curve of Thomas's spine, hand spanning over his hip. “Just correction,” he asked. “That’s all?”

“No.” Thomas licked his lips, at a loss. “I want it, I do. But not just that. I… I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask for, sir.”

Crozier’s hip bumped against Thomas’s flank. Not quite an embrace, but a comfort; a reminder of his presence. “If I can give it to you, I will,” he said softly.

"Will you- will you talk to me, while you're doing it, sir?" Thomas asked, arching into the warmth of his captain’s body. Crozier did not press any closer himself, but neither did he pull away. "I want to know it's you."

“You needn’t flatter me, Thomas,” said Crozier.

Thomas could hear that ironical smile in his voice. He hated that smile- hated how Crozier used it as a lash for his own back, and it made him bolder than he ought to be. Turning his body to catch Crozier's eye pressed them together from shoulder to hip. The captain made to retreat, but Thomas caught the lapel of his waistcoat and held on. “It's not flattery, captain. I told you," he said, trying to say with his eyes what his place forbade him to say out loud. "It's you I think about, when I think about this."

Crozier's lips parted. His hand, now splayed over the small of Thomas's back, twitched minutely. "I believe I have a working notion of what you require, if you trust me to set our course from here,” he said. No smile this time, no derision. Only heat, and certainty.

“I trust you, sir,” said Thomas. “Please.”

Crozier hummed contemplatively, and turned Thomas to face the table. "Trousers down, then," he said, and he kept his hand where it was as Thomas unbuttoned his flies, unclipped his suspenders, and took down his trousers. For a moment, he hesitated, then took his underthings down as well- in for a penny, in for a pound.

The captain drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing. Rucking up the back of Thomas's shirt, his fingers touched bare skin, tracing fine paths of warmth to the top of Tom's tailbone, and then-

Tom had done a lot of things for his captain. His official duties, of course, but his unofficial ones, too, with his hands, and even his mouth a few times. Crozier had never touched Thomas more than he'd had to. Some men were like that. Usually it meant they weren't all that keen on their own sex, just took what they could at sea, but it didn't seem to be that with Crozier; he'd always seemed shy more than anything. He'd certainly never _fondled_ Tom like this, with a sure touch and trailing fingers, getting a hold of a buttock and giving it a firm, assessing squeeze.

"Sir," said Thomas breathlessly.

"Don't rush me, lad," said Crozier, and groped him again, feeling his way about, unhurried.

The first slap took Thomas somewhat by surprise. Again, no hesitation, just a sharp slap to the swell of his backside, the sound of it mortifyingly loud in the cabin. The captain hummed thoughtfully, and brought his hand down again on Thomas's other cheek. He didn't count, at least not out loud. He merely rained precise, stinging blows all over Thomas's posterior, while Thomas squirmed and panted and tilted his hips up for more.

God Almighty, it was... sometimes something that seemed wonderful in your head didn’t quite measure up, but this, this did. It felt exactly how he’d pictured it, just as sharp and overwhelming as he’d hoped. In his head, he’d been different; he’d imagined himself enduring a beating with dignity until he couldn’t help but shift and make noise, but here, now it was happening, his dignity had evaporated under the first handful of blows, and little sounds came out of him with every slap.

It wasn’t the pain- though pain there certainly was, a sweet and blossoming ache building up and building up with each successive strike- but it was all the rest of it, too. What traces of shyness there had been to the captain’s demeanour had quite gone, and with each rise and fall of his hand he let out little huffing breaths of effort, mingling with the echoing cracks of skin on skin and the cries Thomas could not hold back. A filthy chorus of sound, a perfect accompaniment to how it felt.

“God, look at you,” said the captain, voice rough. He shook out his hand, clenching and unclenching it, and with his other hand he touched Thomas again, petting, almost, at his flushed and smarting buttocks. “You really meant it, didn’t you? You want it as much as... as you said you did.”

“Yes. Yes,” Thomas said, arching back into the touch, luxuriating in how it soothed and exacerbated the sting all at once. “It's so much, sir."

Crozier’s wandering fingers dipped lower, stroking the crease where Thomas’s leg joined his backside. “Too much?” he asked, his knuckles brushing the soft hairs there.

Thomas, shivering, shook his head. "No, sir. Not too much.”

“I can give you more of my hand,” said the captain. His unoccupied hand drifted to the table, where his shaving strop lay. “Or, if you think you can take it…”

Swallowing hard, Thomas looked down at it, the leather's soft polish shining in the low light. It would hurt. Even if the captain went easy with him, it would hurt. “Let me try,” he said.

The captain reached for the strop. His body pressed against Tom's again, his trousers rasping over Tom's stinging bottom, and the warm weight of his cock pressed there, too. The captain could be slow to rise, no doubt thanks to his prior habits; if Tom had been worried that Crozier was acting purely from altruism, such a fine cockstand as this one, before they'd even really touched, was proof enough that he was not.

"You'll tell me if you need to stop," the captain said.

"Sir," said Tom, the word coming out on a hiss as the captain rested the flat of the strop on Tom's buttocks, a cool, smooth kiss on his flushed skin.

When the first strike landed, it came on him all confused- a rush of air, a clap of sound, and the sensation came last, bright and stinging as a cinder blown from a stoked fire. Tom’s elbows wobbled viciously, threatening to drop him to the table, and he had no time to brace for the second, laid neatly below the first. Christ alive, it _hurt_ , a good hot smarting hurt that blotted out the world and made Tom’s cock jerk against his belly, and when the third came he let his elbows give out and sank into his forearms, shivering at how the position exposed his backside further.

“You sweet thing,” Crozier murmured. He touched Tom on the bare skin of his back, and brought the strop down again, lower, across the top of his thighs, just shy of his bollocks, and the thought that he might have struck him there had Tom biting at his sleeve to keep from wailing the ship awake. “You sweet, lovely thing. How you take it- I might have had you like this any time, mightn’t I? I’m a born fool to have missed it.”

“You’re not a fool, captain,” said Tom, muffled by his sleeve.

“Ah, but you’re soft on me, Tom,” said the captain. He smacked him again, overlapping with his earlier stripes. “You’d forgive me anything, wouldn’t you?”

“I won’t forgive you if you stop,” Tom said, and basked in the captain’s answering laugh and the efficient, ruthless crack of leather that followed it.

He would, had he had his choice, have stayed in that moment forever, under his captain’s hand and his captain’s undivided attention, but his body was weaker than his desire; another half a dozen strokes of the strop were enough to push him to the edge of what he could bear. The last, a fiery stripe that caught him across the bollocks, left him flat on the table and gasping for breath, and he saw the captain lay down the implement with mingled relief and disappointment.

Thomas lay still, panting, with his cheek pressed to the wood, as Crozier drew away for a moment, and then his hands returned, sticky with wool grease, which he applied to Thomas’s burning backside with gentle fingers. “There, now,” he said. “For a man who’s never taken a beating, you take one handsomely, my lad.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Thomas. The warm grease felt wonderful on his skin, and the touch even better; he could have drifted to sleep where he was with no trouble, had it not been for the ache between his legs, which the massage did nothing to alleviate. “You’re a dab hand at doling one out.”

The captain’s fingers were wandering again, down the backs of Tom’s thighs, rubbing at the marks the strop must have raised. “I’ve been on and off ships since before you were thought of. You’re hardly the first man in the service with a proclivity for discipline, Tom.”

This gave Thomas much to consider. He knew most of his captain’s business, or so he liked to think, but this, he had missed. He’d clearly swung that strop before, and all without his steward knowing, which meant he’d done it ashore. And there had been nights on _Terror_ in the Antarctic when he’d sent Tom to bed early, which he’d gratefully done, and stayed up in conference with Sir James Clark Ross… but this was beyond Tom’s place to speculate.

Crozier’s fingertips dipped between Tom's thighs, and Tom could not help but squirm, just a little. If he shifted backwards just an inch or two, Crozier’s fingers would stroke over his stones. “Captain,” he said, softly.

“We can stop here, if you want,” the captain said.

“No, sir. That’s not what I want,” said Thomas, failing to keep his tone even. “And I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t ask me any more questions just now, and gave a hint as to what _you_ want.”

This drew another chuckle out of Crozier, and when his hands moved again, they moved with certainty, pressing Tom’s thighs apart. He allowed his knuckles to brush against the underside of Tom’s balls, but did not touch them directly; rather, he prodded his fingers up into the soft places where Tom’s legs joined, smearing grease around. “What I want,” he said, over the soft sounds of fabric rustling against fabric, "I already have to hand, don't I?"

This time Thomas did not bother to try to keep still. He didn't think he could have, not with the captain's prick nudging between his legs, hot and thick and slippery with grease. Stifling a sound into his sleeve, he arched his back and squeezed his knees together. "Jesus God," Crozier groaned, drawing back and fucking in again. He was going to leave stains. He might leave bruises, the way he was gripping Tom's hips- neat finger-shaped bruises to match the welts on Tom's arse, tangible proof that Tom could press in the days to come to remind him whose he was. “You’re in trouble now, lad- I’ll never let you alone after this, not now-”

Good, he wanted to say. Don’t leave me alone. Have me on my back and my knees and my belly whenever you want me, don’t give me a minute to rest. He wanted to say this and more besides, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. Instead, he simply whined and let the sensations overtake him- the wool of the captain’s trousers like holystone on his chafed, smarting backside, the heat of his body, and of course his cock, rubbing him just shy of where he wanted to be rubbed.

“My lovely Tom,” the captain said, his arm coming around Tom’s middle to pull him up against his chest, so his words went right into Tom’s ear. “My lovely, lovely Tom.” His hips bore down like the thump of the engine’s pistons as came, his spend smearing between Tom’s legs.

In a dirty book it would have been enough, but as it was, the rush of Crozier’s crisis left Tom damp and gasping, but with his cock still hard against the table. Despite the urgency of his own need, he felt weak as a kitten, and let the captain turn him over without complaint, glad to be gathered up and kept near.

“Sir,” he said, into Crozier’s collar. “Please.”

“Needn’t beg,” said the captain, taking Tom’s cock in his hand.

“Can still, if you want, sir,” said Tom, squirming up into his touch. With a soft chuckle, Crozier pressed a kiss to his temple, and frigged him faster.

It was coming on him now. Crozier’s hand was perfect, rough and slick with his own spend and the stuff dribbling out of Tom, and his other arm held Tom close. Never, in all his time in the captain’s service, not even back in the coldest days far south when he’d taken his comfort from Tom’s hands, had they embraced like this. It wasn’t the clutch that brought him off- he had the firm, sure grip working his cock to thank for that- but maybe it was that, Crozier holding him, or the ache of his bottom pressing on the table, that had him spending in the captain’s hand with a whimpering cry, tears pricking at his eyes.

“There you are, there you are,” the captain was murmuring, when Thomas came back to himself.

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said.

The captain laughed again, affectionate. “If there was ever a time you could call me Francis, it’s now.”

He never had before. “Francis,” he said, the syllables unfamiliar on his tongue. “If you insist.”

“You can go back to calling me ‘sir’ in the morning, if you like, but I think we can dispense with the formalities for the moment,” he said, pressing another kiss to Tom’s forehead, his thin lips soft and cool.

“I like the formalities,” said Tom, restraining himself from adding the honorific with an effort. “I like being your steward. Being _yours_.”

The smile this earned him was a wobbly, sweet, lopsided thing. “Lucky thing,” Francis said. “I’m fond of the arrangement myself.”

Later, Tom would have a good deal of cleaning up to do; getting the grease and spend out of their clothes would take up half his day at least. The next time they did this, he should have to prepare somewhat better, and see that they got a trifle more undressed. For now, he allowed Crozier to mop at the mess between them with a handkerchief, enduring his somewhat haphazard efforts with affectionate patience, and allowed himself to bask, just for a moment, in the lingering warmth between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come and scream about icy lads with me [on tumblr](https://jkrockin.tumblr.com/) or [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/jk_rockin).


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